


WorldCon 2026

by Sonora



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Comic-Con, M/M, because Chuck is a secret nerd and nobody can convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonora/pseuds/Sonora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc takes Chuck to WorldCon</p>
            </blockquote>





	WorldCon 2026

Coming in this morning, Herc had honestly had no idea how this is going to go. 

Back before the kaijuu - when Angie was still around to worry about their young son's fixation on the Gundam series - Chuck had always wanted to go to a con. Begged. And at one point Herc had given in, promising they'd go to the next one. But between Herc's deployments and Angie's work and Chuck's schooling, it had never quite happened. Then there was the war. And the last year or so, with Chuck’s recovery and shutting down what’s left of the PPDC, hasn’t been conducive to quality father-son time of any kind.

But then Herc had heard that WorldCon was coming to Sydney.

So he'd made a few calls. 

He'd had to make an appointment with the local organizers to convince them it wasn't some arsehole pulling their leg. Right, Herc Hansen, volunteering his and his son's services to host a panel.

Herc's been to military conferences. He was expecting something sedate like that. Drink coffee, pretend to care about the shit on the trade floor, stay awake as the generals droned on about strategic aspects of regional alliances, and get pissed after all that wrapped up for the night.

This has definitely not been that.

This has been...

Overwhelming.

Definitely overwhelming.

Herc had asked that they not be given some kind of bullshit VIP treatment, like the goddamn movie stars get. It's been a long time since he was a celebrity, and after what it did to Scott, he's got no desire to relive those days. "We're going to be there anyway," he'd said, "and the boy loves to talk about jaeger tech. Thought it might be a nice thing for him."

"Let me get this straight, Marshall. You and your son, the pilots of Striker Eureka, want to present a standard small panel on jaeger tech?"

"Look, he never misses an opportunity to be an expert on something. I'm sure he'd be happy to present anything you need."

At his request, they hadn't put their names in the programming schedule. It just said "senior PPDC operators."

The room was half-full when they walked in. It was a pleasant group, full of people clearly more interested in the topic of the lecture than the two men presenting it. But of course, one of them tweeted a photo of Chuck's Battlestar Galactica shirt, which somebody else immediately tagged as _Chuck fucking Hansen_ , and the population of the room exploded.

The con staff ended up bumping the next two panels, Chuck unwilling to let go any of the arguments or questions posed by the audience, security unable to dislodge anyone from the room. The conversations about the tech took over the abortive questions about it being _Herc and Chuck Hansen_ at the front of the room, and when the con director finally showed up to kick them out, Chuck spent another two hours up in the main hotel's bar.

He'd found Herc later, bubbling.

"What were you talking about all that time?" Herc had asked, on the way back up to the room. He'd gotten caught by some highly enthusiastic members of the costumers' guide who had a literal notebook full of questions about drive suit materials and design. It was almost humbling how much research these people put into their hobby, but after that kind of info dump, his brain felt like jelly.

"Bees!"

"Bees?"

"Yeah Dad, motherfucking bees. Did you know they've got a three mile range? Fucking three miles!"

Chuck had sounded excited - thrilled, actually. _Elated._

The con folks had been nice enough to give them normal badges, without any of the VIP or "presenter" markings on them. Chuck had put his name down as Charlie, and between that, his ball cap, and his missing arm, nobody seems to have figured out who he really is. Changing clothes back at the room probably helped too, Chuck donning something a little better at hiding his prosthetic and Herc ditching his half-assed attempt at business casual for an old motorbike shirt.

They'd spent the rest of the afternoon going to the panels Chuck wanted to go - all science, shit Herc couldn't follow while Chuck took _notes_ \- plus some evening contest the costumers insisted they didn't want to miss - which turned out to be true, god _damn_ , and now, apparently, people hang out in other people's room at 0200 and get drunk.

Which is...it's really nice, actually. None of bullshit of those warfighter conferences, and at least a healthy percentage of the booze.

Herc didn't bother putting down a different name, but just like Chuck, nobody's called any attention to it. Instead, some bloke in a kilt and a tie is pouring the whole room another round of shots from a gigantic Cthulhu hip flask, the discussion about Aboriginal verses Japanese animism staring to shift towards something called furries, while Rock Band screams on the suite's TV.

Chuck’s plucking furiously away at the guitar keys, hitting as many notes as the bloke in the steampunk Snow White costume keeps missing with the vocals. Boy picked himself up a Jedi robe somewhere, or made it, or something. He's wearing it now, anyway, and he's sweating a bit under it. Herc's just drunk enough to want to go up and lick it those little beads off the back of his neck, their audience be damned. 

"So that's your kid, right?" one of the little crowd sitting on the bed asks, up over the noise.

Thinking he's been recognized, Herc nods, bracing himself for the inevitable Questions. "Yeah, that's my boy."

"He looks a lot like you."

"Got the ginger gene unfortunately, just like his old man."

Everyone laughs, and somebody else, an American, speaks up. "What do y'all do for a living?"

Huh.

Herc's not quite drunk enough that he can't hold the truth in for a moment, and then it hits him, why Chuck is enjoying this so damn much. 

"I'm retired RAAF, actually," he doesn't quite lie. "The sprog's working on his master's in advanced robotics. Wants to build himself a better arm, and the garage workshop's a bit limited."

The Aussies nod. The American just looks confused.

"Sprog?"

Which sets off another conversation about Aussie slang and its development independent of England, which Herc is more than okay with getting in on, and when the current song ends, Chuck sashays over and steals his beer.

"How 'bout we head back to our room?" Herc murmurs in his ear. "Let me put the cherry on top of this sundae for you."

Chuck grins at him, happy in a way he hasn't been happy in a long time - even the blokes at school treat him like _Ranger Hansen_ instead of a fellow student - and bumps Herc with his good shoulder. "Who said anything about sleep tonight, old man?"


End file.
